


Not Opposites, Not Nearly

by checkerbee



Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: Other, Sometimes you gotta make sure your robot bf is okay, Touch-Starved Revenant (Apex Legends), hand holding, implied PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-12 06:40:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29131182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/checkerbee/pseuds/checkerbee
Summary: It is easy, Hound thinks, to get lost in everything that Revenant is.
Relationships: Bloodhound/Revenant (Apex Legends)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 49





	Not Opposites, Not Nearly

**Author's Note:**

> Fair warning, I'm very tired and did not proofread this. Sorry in advance if its not as good as what I normally post.

It is easy, Hound thinks, to get lost in everything that Revenant is. Too easy to allow him to inspire a bloodlust in them that they don't normally express, as if it's waiting beneath the surface for him to coax it out. Too easy to slip into the thrill of the fight and lose track of the world around them until there is no one left to face.

They are both trained in the hunt. The weight needed to pull the trigger is comfortable and familiar, as easy as splitting the soft skin of an exposed throat or snapping the weak joint between bones.

They were sides of a coin, but not opposites, not nearly. The only difference was that they were flesh, while he was metal. That they believed while he scoffed at the concept of a higher power. 

He is sharp bitter words and quick actions. They are calm tempered truths and patient steps. But here, with warm blood coating the tips of their axe and dripping from his fingers, they were the same. 

"We should move on." They say, reloading their guns with quick, practiced movements as Artur scouts ahead.

They leave streaks on the metal and know that they'll have to clean it before too long to avoid the risk of it jamming or misfiring. Instead they turn their attention to their companion, note that he has yet to move. 

For all their similarities, it is easy for them to forget that while they gain freedom in their battles, he finds something harder to return from. They may shrug off their bloodlust like armor, but his sinks its claws in and  _ takes.  _

Not for the first time, they find themselves waiting for his return. 

One rotation becomes two and although they landed within the first few circles, they'll need to move soon. 

Still, they wait until his shoulders twitch, spasm and realign as the announcer calls the third round, and let out a breath they hadn't realized they were holding. 

Slowly, cautiously, they come to his side and reach out to take his hand. Their fingers lace through his and they push down the flare of worry in their chest when his hand remains slack in theirs. 

"Where are you?" 

"Not far." His head tilts down, eyes studying them and the grounding contact between them.

"We need to move on." They repeat and he grunts, shakes all over like a beast trying to rid its coat of water. 

"Lead the way." 

But they don't. 

Instead they tighten their grip on his hand when he makes to move on, hold him firm until his body sways back toward them. Bringing their other hand up, they rise a bit on their toes and cup his cheek, stroke over the artificial red tears there. 

"If you need a minute--" 

"I don't." And he sounds gruff, hurried in a way that they know means he wants them to drop it and move on. 

"Not all memories can be easily cast aside." They say, feel him shudder beneath their hand. "Some stay in dark corners until we shine a light on them." 

"Do you practice all your little sayings or were you just graced with the natural ability to say nothing at all while sounding important?" 

They know that he expects them to take offense, to pull back and leave him to his struggle, so instead they laugh. They laugh and he huffs out a sound that is half amusement half despair. 

"I struggle with them too, is what I meant." 

"And you think that showing pity helps?" He grunts, purposefully obtuse, but he doesn't pull away from their touch. No, he leans into it, sways into them like something safe, and they take that as the admission that he'd never verbally give. 

"It isn't pity. Empathy, compassion, but not pity." They tell him, drawing back now that the ring has started to move in. There's the sound of Anita's barrage rumbling on the other side of the mountain and they both turn toward it. 

"After this match, we can talk if you'd like. Or you can talk and I'll listen." 

"I…" His voice clicks once, twice, words stuck or forced back. "There's a lot." 

If he expects them to balk at his words, he'll be disappointed. They are too much alike, even with their differences, for them to shy away from the chance of easing his mind. 

"Then we'll end the match quickly." 

He snorts, pulls away and they let him. "Eager to play shrink, are we?"

"Eager to help." They stay back, leave the option of following up to him. "If you'll let me?"

He doesn't respond the way they expect, doesn't return their inquiry, but instead glances down at their joined hands and tightens his. 

He holds them tighter and that is answer enough. 


End file.
